A shock in Barca, and tomatoes on the terrace

July 1–20 – Zaragoza y Barcelona   

We both watched the street. It was dusk in Barcelona. A deep purply sky hung framed by the dirty white bricks of the boulevard. In the middle of the cross-section a young man lay stretched across the floor, motionless. His blood stained the tarmac. A scooter lay sprawled by his side, surrounded by the shattered fragments of his headlights.

I was looking at the street, standing beside my host. I had heard a bang in my room, and walked through to the living room, to find out what was up. I entered the room to find Norma, my host, at the window shaking her head.

“People are arrogant in this city. They drive too, too fast. They only think about themselves.”

Our window was on the third floor, and it gave almost a birds eye perspective. The scene felt like a painting. The accident was framed by the four-way street, and in the background, there were shots of light from windows of the apartment blocks opposite. Like us, residents where looking down at the accident unfolding, in disbelief.

And watching this all play out, took me back to London. To the last time I was called on to help a terrible situation, at the foot of my own apartment.

2 weeks before the accident, I arrived in Zaragoza. It became one of my favourite cites I have visited. And it is mainly because of my host.

Jose lived just a bit beyond the centre of the city, in a family orientated little barrio. He was friendly , but genuine, and a true enthusiast in his city and the under discovered countryside of Aragon, the region beyond.

Jose was a short man in his 50s with a mighty moustache you could hang your washing on. His apartment was stuffed full of well thumbed guides to the local flora and forna, the mountains, the rivers, and everything in between that shaped his beloved Aragon. He was also gardener of true passion and quality. Two french doors led to a veritable jungle of fruit and vegetables and flowers and herbs that grew on his sizeable terrace. And talking of washing, he even had made his own natural detergent. Not because he was hopelessly guyenth paltrow, but because he was good enough to know how to make his own. Hence, That night my pants and socks slept softly, smelling sweet amongst the vines and tomatoes.

It was my most complete stay I think really. Jose and I ate together – sometimes with produce from the terrace – and watched the spanish elections unfold to their ultimately disappointing stalemate again. Every now and then he would turn up brandishing a dusty old book on a particular ravine, or a map of walks through mountains or past beautiful monasteries. All, sadly, were almost impossible to get to without a car. Or there may be a bus in the (early) morning and one late in the evening. A nailed on chance to be lost in the middle of nowhere!

But this gave me the appetite to come back, have a beer with Jose, and finally tackle the mountains, and barrancos (revines) of the Aragonian Pyrenees. A roadtrip from Madrid could do it. One day.

Zaragoza itself is a great city to visit. A beautiful old town, statement cathedral and lovely river have now been supplemented by futuristic new buildings, bridges, and a fantastic wetlands 'aquapark'. Oh and the tapas is not bad either. It is a perfect little weekend break city.

After Zaragoza I set about making my way to Barcelona, a four hour journey by bus.

Almost everyone has been to Barcelona, but me. I'm not sure if I was saving it, or just preferred to go somewhere different in Spain – Granada, Jerez, Santander – rather than hitting the big, touristly heart of Spain. Or Catalunya, the region, and perhaps more if you speak to the right (wrong?) people. But that is a whole other blog, right there.

Barcelona is a beautiful city. A city of its different parts, barrios much more than others in Spain – which are usually much more residential, leading towards a centre. Barcelona, due in part to its history, is a city of different parts, brought together over the years. The Barrio Gótico – old town – was connected with the village of Gracia in the 19^th century to make the Paris-like Eixample neighbourhood – all long boulevards and cross-junctions. It also created the Paseo de Gracia – where Gaudi, and other leading, less bonkers architects of the day laid down Art Nouvelle masterpieces.

I was in Barcelona, ostensibly to study a little short conversation course. But what I was really in Barcelona for, I think, was to get refused entry to nightclubs. This happened three times. Despite dressing up 'elegente' my trainers or sandals weren't cutting it. But which traveller packs a fancy pair of loafers? My broken Spanish reasoning to the bouncers did not cut it, so while my friends partied, it was just a lukewarm can by the sea for me, bought for a euro off a indian man doing the rounds.

One of my rules always used to be, never go to a club that has a dress code. It's usually a pretty good barometer of a place. Normally you can predict: expensive drinks, dickheads scanning up girls too young for them, or rich charm-free types, who think that smashing down 2k to 'book a table' is a sign of attractiveness, instead vulgarity.

My classes was fantastic. And though only 2 hours a day, most days I asked a classmate for a beer and a further chat in Spanish. Our teacher was inspiring, and I was impressed how he managed to keep the conversation going, and throwing in a few jokes, aimed at the limited level that we were operating.

It was also fantastic to have a bit of structure, a place to be everyday, even though it was at a student friendly 1pm in the afternoon. How well I got up in time for that!

And another thing with doing the course, was the ability to find free friends.

I befriended a slightly nervy french lad, a Turkish girl who was studying architecture, and many Italians who seemingly would just speak italian, with a bad Spanish accent. In my class itself, people tended to be older, latter day learners – but much more committed to the learning, like me. Probably this was due to the slightly higher level we were than some of the others, but it did seem that some people were here for a holiday first and Spanish course second.

And also, to me, it was interesting, as it was my first ever experience learning Spanish in a classroom!

On my last day in Barcelona, at the window as I watched the aftermath of the accident, it reminded me of when something similar happened rather more close to home.

It was about 10pm and deadly quiet in the road that lead to my old flat in London. Joe, my flatmate, and I were returning from central London. We heard a sound, and were the first on the scene. A local 15 year old boy had stolen a moped, and not knowing any better, had careered into the back of a parked car. He lay on the floor, leg out of joint. It sent a shiver up through us.

We no option but to to help. His friends, were spiraling around shouting into thin air. They were clearly shocked to the core, but they also were worried about 'the evidence'. 'The crime' – of joyriding. So, lacking anyone better, we decided to take control of the situation. Joe, checked the logistics of the situation, and I kneeled down on the ground and attempted to reassure the boy. Joe engaged in a element of crowd control, and various kids jumped around the site like pigeons, hands infront of mouths. The boy was still conscious, but his eyes were closing. Staying alert is important in this situation, and staying still. He supported Brentford of all teams, and was confident of the new season. We kept him awake long enough.

The ambulance they managed to figure it out where we were, and made it on time. They did a fantastic job, despite the crowd, and the boy went off to hospital.

In Barcelona, the residents started to return inside their flats, and lights across the street, slowly turned off, one by one. There was sawdust covering the stains on the street and the rider was inside the ambulance. He was either receiving treatment or not.

The ambulance stayed there a long time, not rushing off to hospital.

“Its either a good or bad sign” my host said.

We both returned to our rooms. The night drew in, and the cars started flowing again through the street. Horns beeped, young people shouted and laughed outside my window. The noise and buzz of the city returned, camouflaging the events that had happened just an hour previously.

I went to bed, hot and sweaty on a humid Catalan evening. I pulled over the covers and closed my eyes, a little shaken.